Mocking the Odds (A Hunger Games/Tom Hiddleston Fanfic)

Not Just Another Pretty Face

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty." Chris rouses me quietly from James's chest, where surprisingly enough, I had managed to close my eyes and fall into a dreamless sleep. "You've got a big day ahead of you."

"Doesn't James, too?" I whine, craving nothing more than to go back to bed. 

He chuckles. "Trust me, dear. You're going to need the whole day to get ready."

Groaning, I slide out of the covers. James rustles in his sleep, and I tuck him in, extremely jealous of his newfound privilege. Muttering under my breath about how guys had it so much easier when it came to looks and beauty, I allow myself to be escorted by Chris to the elevator. We step in, and he jabs something as we plunge downwards so quickly my stomach leaps into my throat. The sliding glass doors open seamlessly, and I am led down a shimmering hallway to a simple white door that isn't distinguishable from the rest, other than the small gold plaque with the number 10 inscribed into it. This must be my part of the Remake Center, where the tributes are poked, prodded, and perfected before sending them off into the Games, with hope they'll get sponsors from their makeovers.

Chris stops here, and gives me a little push forward. "Have fun, Reyna." he grins, and I stick my tongue out at him. "I'll see you later."

I reach to push the door open, but it slides away before my hand can touch the surface. The room looks like an enormous bath house, with a gleaming table in the middle that looks an awful lot like someplace an animal would get butchered. Looking around, I don't see my prep team or stylist anywhere, so I walk towards the table and awkwardly perch on it. 

"Hello." a honeyed voice speaks. I shriek, and almost fall off the table, my feet hitting the cold tile with a slap. Whipping my head from side to side, I look for the source of  what's frightened me. 

"Reyna, is it?" the voice says again. A young man enters from out of nowhere, and surely he can't be from the Capitol. So many of the stylists they air on television are so altered they look almost like aliens from another world, but this man doesn't. He's dressed in simple black pants and a copper shirt with the top button open, which contrasts beautifully against his pale skin. I can't see any tattoos or stencils, and his hair looks to be his natural shade of auburn. Reaching the table, he looks me up and down, and clucks his tongue. 

"I'm Benedict, darling. The one that'll be making you pretty." he says quietly. As sweet as his voice is, I can't seem to find any trace of the strange artificiality the people in the Capitol have. 

"Hello." I try cautiously. "Oh! Your eyes!"

As Benedict comes closer, I can see his face more clearly now, and he's had his eyes surgically transformed to where the pupils are swirling clouds of turquoise and jade, darting around and splashing together to create the impression of a kaleidoscope. As much as I hated the sickening alterations the citizens of the Capitol did to themselves, I can't help but think how beautiful this makes him. He's also got chiseled cheekbones lining either side of his face, and I want to run my finger along them, purely to see if it'd come back bloody with the sharpness of them.

He smiles. "Do you like them?" 

I nod vigorously. "Are your cheeks from the Capitol as well?"

That makes him smile wider, showing off his perfect teeth. "No, these I was born with."

"They're lovely." 

"I'm terribly sorry for scaring you earlier." he apologizes halfheartedly. "But enough talk. We've got a lot of work to do before you can head off to the Ball tonight."

"Ball? What ball?"

"Well, a dance, of course! It's held for all the tributes as a sort of welcoming feast." Benedict grabs me by the arm and drags me toward the bathtub as I audibly groan. I can't dance.